by Garry Disher
Hands went up, and Scobie Sutton, his eyes wide and self-conscious, made a list on the whiteboard: neighbours, mailman, newspaper delivery, garbage truck, recycle truck, LPG gas truck, meter reader, council grader, power company linesman, taxi, courier, surveyors, council weed-control and fire-control inspectors, rates assessor, take-away food delivery.
Challis said, I live on a similar road. I've seen sewage carters, blackberry sprayers, water carriers, repairmen of all kinds. Men delivering firewood—though not in this weather. A man comes with a portable machine to shear my neighbour's half-dozen sheep. Another slashes grass with his tractor. Young people work in the vineyards. Maybe we're looking at a contract gardener. Anything else?'
'Jehovah's Witnesses.'
Sutton wrote it down on the board. The men and women in the room sank a little deeper into their chairs. In the canteen John Tankard said, 'You little ripper.'
He was across the table from her, stretched back in his chair, the newspaper open and concealing his head and trunk, which suited Pam just fine. There was a headline about a firebug, which apparently was causing senior officers in CIB to get very pissed off. She sipped her tea, thought of Ginger.
But the newspaper shook. 'Listen to this, Murph. "According to police reports, Superintendent Mark McQuarrie of Peninsula District rang the arresting officers on behalf of the Bastian family and charges against Julian Bastian and his girlfriend were withdrawn on the authority of another officer, Senior Sergeant Vincent Kellock."'
'We know that,' Pam said.
'But listen to this. "Sources also report that the charges against Mr Bastian had been dropped after his family agreed to drop charges of wrongful arrest and harassment against police."'
Pam leaned forward. 'They did a deal? The bastards.'
Tankard was still behind the paper. 'Yep.'
I thought it was simply a case of, he's got rich and powerful mates so you can't touch him.'
'Nup.'
They fell silent. Pam stared across the table at the newspaper. The Progress seemed to like causes of one kind or another. According to canteen gossip, the editor was having it off with Challis.
Tankard cleared his throat. ' "Arresting police are reportedly furious."'
'It says that?'
'Yep.'
'I'm furious, you're furious, but how does the Progress know we're furious?'
Tankard reached around the corner of his newspaper for the half-consumed donut that sat like a fat worm on his plate. His mouth full, he said, 'You know, sources and that.'
'Yeah, sure, Tank,' Pam said.
You had to laugh. Before Christmas, Tankard was no better than a Nazi stormtrooper. Now he stood for justice in a world ruled by cronyism.
Suddenly van Alphen was there, as silent as a cat, looming over them. 'You two, come with me, please.'
They followed him to his office. It was like the man: tidy, underfurnished, an area of plain surfaces. 'All hell's broken loose,' he said. 'You'll be working on that fire for the time being. Forget any minor infringements that come your way. We simply haven't got the time or the manpower.'
'Okay, Sarge.'
'You'll each be paired with an officer in plain-clothes, door-knocking, talking to shopkeepers, talking to the neighbours again. We need to know Clara Macris's habits, who knew her, who was seen with her. The usual.'
He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. Pam scanned it. She was paired with Scobie Sutton.
Tankard, next to her, twisted in his chair to ease the ache in his lower back. 'What was she like, Sarge?'
He sounded genuinely curious, but Pam saw van Alphen's face grow closed and wary. 'What do you mean, what was she like? How the hell should I know?'
'No offence, Sarge. I mean, was she a bit iffy? You know, a junkie. Friends in low places.'
Pam said, 'Tank, that's what we're being sent to find out.'
'Fair enough. Just asking.'
Van Alphen gave her a curious look of gratitude. It was there and gone in an eyeblink. Then she saw him slide a manila folder shyly across the desk toward them.
'Meanwhile, I've written a report for the District Commander.'
She picked it up. 'On what, Sarge?'
'Read it.'
Tankard pulled his chair next to hers. He gave off enormous heat; she could hear his body. Then she heard his voice, reading aloud, as she leaned away from him and read to herself:
'The dropping of charges against Mr Julian Bastian on the day of the listed court date in the Waterloo Magistrates' Court causes grave concern to myself and the arresting officers, Constables John Tankard and Pamela Murphy.
'The allegation my officers lied and contrived an arrest situation is false. I have every faith in their ability and judgment. All the evidence supports their charges against Bastian.
'The situation is potentially damaging to the Force. Already allegations of favouritism, corruption and intervention at the highest levels have been made by the local press, which could soon become state wide.'
Pam found her heart lifting. Beside her, John Tankard was saying, 'Good one, Sarge.'
Van Alphen murmured, 'Something had to be done.'
He looked tired, the flesh tight on his skull. Tired, and almost, Pam thought, stricken with a strong emotion, like sadness, heartache.
The briefing over, Challis made his call. He had the Progress on the desk in front of him. The first page asked Is There a Firebug at Work? and went on to outline what Tessa Kane called 'a rash of deliberate fires in the district'. Twelve mailboxes set alight, one memorable night before Christmas (including the victim of this latest tragedy . . . Had she seen something? Was this a payback?). A stolen four-wheel drive torched on Chicory Kiln Road. An attempt by burglars to burn down a house near the racecourse.
She also offered a psychological profile of the typical firebug:
'He betrays the symptoms of an anti-social personality— another name for a psychopath—from an early age, including bed-wetting, cruelty to animals, anger at the world, a tendency to get into fights, a history of lighting fires and then fighting them or standing back to watch others fight them.
'He often uses fire to express his anger, to avenge himself on individuals and institutions that he feels have wronged him. Fear eases his anger. Its destructive capacity fascinates him. He feels powerful.
'The association of fire and sex in pyromaniacs is well known. Fire seems to heighten the desire for sexual release.'
When she came on the line, Challis said, 'What the hell are you doing?'
'Lovely to hear your voice, too, Hal.'
'There may be no connection between any of those fires.'
'Hal, come on, there has to be a connection between some of them. Face it, there's a firebug at work.'
'Far from being community-minded, you keep trying to scare everyone. Flash headlines, some psychological garbage that you probably cobbled together from some cheap magazine.'
'I resent that.'
'Tess, it was irresponsible.'
Ellen walked down High Street to the bank and withdrew four hundred dollars to add to the one hundred that she'd tried to give Rhys Hartnett. She had to wait in a slow queue, everyone wanting to talk about the fire and where they had been in relation to the danger it posed. Everyone was excited and laying claim to lucky escapes and fear and leapfrogging statistics. When she got back to the station, she stuffed the five hundred into the poor box in the foyer. When she was growing up, her mother had always referred to the 'mission box', meaning unwanted clothes that she put aside for the Inland Mission. Every Christmas Day, she would put an empty envelope on the table and tell the family shyly, 'Perhaps you would like to give to the mission.' Ellen wondered if people still did that, and wondered how far she had changed since her childhood, and how far she had drifted from her mother.
Their easy way with labels: 'Killer Highway.' 'Highway Killer.'Did they think he could be defined by a label? What were they going to call him now that he was in amongst them, prow
ling where they wheeled their prams and washed their cars and chinwagged with their neighbours?
They'd find something to call him, something inane, convinced that they'd pinned him down according to pattern. And when they did, he'd alter the pattern again.
But not the killing.
Other men dreamed. He made it happen. The slavering dream, followed by the shuddering release. The snarling hunger of it, like a meal savoured and devoured.
This next one was a real slag. He was going to enjoy this one. Doing her was going to really hit home, right where they'd feel it. Snatch her tomorrow morning, in broad daylight, between the milkbar and the church, right from under their noses.
Linger over this one.
Kind of like revenge. Sweet, juicy revenge.
TWENTY-ONE
At nine the next morning, Scobie Sutton said, 'Mrs Stella Riggs?'
She had her back to him, checking that she'd locked her front door. 'Yes?'
'I'm Detective Constable Sutton. I need to ask you a few questions regarding the fire at your neighbour's house.'
He watched her turn from the door and step on to the path as if to brush him aside. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you anything.'
'According to my notes, you've been on holiday?'
She was almost past him, following a line of roses away from her front door. 'If you know that, then you know I couldn't possibly know anything about the fire. And she's scarcely my neighbour. There is another property separating hers from mine.'
'I understand that,' Sutton said, hurrying along beside her. He didn't like the woman. Clipped voice, born-to-rule manner, an air of impatience and indifference. 'But I do need to ask you how well you knew Clara Macris.'
'I didn't know her at all.'
'You never talked to her? Visited her?'
'Certainly not.'
'Did she ever visit you?'
'Good heavens, no. Look, all of my mail is being held for me at the post office. I got in late last night and have a lot to do. If you don't mind, I'd like—'
'Do you know who her friends were?'
Sutton was asking questions on the run, now, following Stella Riggs around to the side of the house, where she pointed a remote control at the lock-up garage. The door slid open, revealing a white Mercedes.
'How should I know who her friends were? Nothing to do with me.'
'Recent visitors, regular visitors, strangers, nothing like that?'
'There's her boyfriend. At least, I'm assuming it was her boyfriend. His car was always there.'
'Boyfriend,' Sutton said.
'One of your lot. A policeman. In a police car. Always there. Tall, gloomy-looking fellow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do.'
Sutton returned to the car. He muttered, as Pam Murphy started the engine, 'There's a prize cow.'
'Sit down, Sergeant,' Challis said, one hour later.
But van Alphen continued to stand, and first he gazed grimly at Challis, then at Scobie Sutton, and finally at Senior Sergeant Kellock. He pointed at Kellock. 'What's he doing here?'
Kellock cleared his throat. 'I'm representing the interests of the uniformed branch, Sergeant.'
'Bullshit. You're here because you're pissed off that I questioned your decision on Bastian, you and McQuarrie, and you're hoping to see me sink.'
Sutton said, 'Van, why don't you just sit?'
Fatigue had sharpened the planes of van Alphen's face. Not for the first time, Sutton was struck by van Alphen's resemblance to Challis. They were lean, hard-working men driven by private demons. As though aware that the greater challenge came from Challis, van Alphen sat, finally, and squarely faced the inspector across the desk.
Challis said, 'You claimed just now that the Senior Sergeant hoped to see you sink. Are you expecting to sink? Is there anything you wish to tell us?'
'I'm not stupid, sir.'
'Nobody suggested you were.'
'I'm as tuned in to canteen gossip as anyone, even when it's about me. You think I killed Clara Macris.'
Challis said, 'Do we?'
Van Alphen folded his arms. He sat rock still and apparently filled with contempt. It was contempt for a police force that didn't protect its own, Sutton decided, and not aimed at Challis in particular. 'Van, we need to know more about your relationship with the dead woman,' he said.
Van Alphen's narrow head swung slowly around until they were staring at each other. No wonder the locals hate him, Sutton thought.
'What relationship, Constable?'
Fine, Sutton thought, if that's the way you want to play it, I'll drop 'Van' and call you by your name and rank. 'Sergeant van Alphen, we have a witness who saw a police car at Clara Macris's house on a number of occasions. We've checked the vehicle logs and duty rosters. You often signed a car out.'
'Really. Is that a fact?'
Challis stepped in. 'You investigated the woman's mailbox fire, is that correct?'
'Yes.'
'You made follow-up visits to her?'
'I may have done.'
'Either you did or you didn't. It wasn't that long ago.'
'She was badly shaken up.'
'And you went around and gave her a cuddle, hoping she'd come across for you,' Kellock put in.
Challis darkened. 'Senior Sergeant, please leave the room.'
'I have a right to be here, Inspector.'
Challis was clipped and dismissive. 'No you don't. This is a murder investigation. Constable Sutton and I investigate murders. You don't.'
'This is my station.'
Challis slapped his hand on the desk and shouted, 'And this is my investigation. Now get out.'
Kellock stood slowly, massively, and with feigned good grace left the room.
Challis grinned. After a while, van Alphen allowed himself a wintry smile.
'Clara Macris was a user,' Challis said. 'According to the toxicology report on her body.'
'I thought she might have been.'
Challis nodded. 'But that's all we know about her. And it's one aspect of her that must have led her into contact with other people.'
Van Alphen shrugged. 'I guess so.'
'Do you know who was supplying her?'
'No.'
'What did she tell you about herself?'
'Nothing much.'
'Did you like her?' Sutton asked suddenly.
Van Alphen blinked. 'Yes.'
'Is that why you kept going back to see her?'
Van Alphen said irritably, 'I didn't keep going back to see her at all. I may have dropped in a couple of times.'
'Did you have sex with her?'
'No.'
'Did you want to?'
'Oh, so that's why I killed her. I wanted a fuck, she didn't, so I killed her.'
'Well, is that what happened?'
'No. I mean, no, I didn't kill her.'
Challis had been watching this, leaning back, his right foot resting on his left knee, tapping a pen against his teeth. He straightened again. 'What did you talk about?'
'Nothing much.'
'She didn't tell you about her private life?'
'No.'
'What about your old cases, Van?'
Van Alphen frowned. 'My what?'
'You're not very popular. Has anyone threatened you? Been following you? Could someone have wanted to kill your girlfriend to get back at you?'
'She wasn't my girlfriend. No-one was following me.'
'Come on, Sergeant, we're offering you a lifeline here. You were sleeping with her, weren't you?'
'No.'
'Were you supplying her with drugs?'
'Was I what?'
'You heard. She had a habit. She told you she'd sleep with you if you supplied her with drugs.'
'I can't believe I'm hearing this.'
Now, you shouldn't have chosen those words, Sutton said to himself. They don't ring true. He decided to push it. 'Where did you get the drugs? The evidence locker?'
'It seems,' van Alphen said, looking at the cei
ling, 'that I should have a lawyer present.'
'Or did you rip off a dealer? Is that how you kept her supplied?'
'You're making an awfully big leap from my visiting her a couple of times on official business to my supplying her with drugs in order to sleep with her.'
'More than a couple of visits,' Challis snapped. 'Your car was seen there several times, by several of the residents of Quarterhorse Lane.'
Van Alphen muttered something sullenly.
'Speak up, Van.'
I said, she thought someone was after her.'
The tension ebbed from the room. Challis said gently, 'Were you sleeping with her?'
'Yes.'
'What did she tell you about herself?'
'Almost nothing. She came from New Zealand, I suspected she was a user, and that's about it.'
'Who did she think was after her?'
'She didn't, wouldn't, say.'
'What led her to think someone was after her?'
'She thought the mailbox business was a warning.'
'You told her about the other mailboxes?'
'Yes. I think I convinced her, but in general she was pretty agitated. The abductions didn't help. She told me she thought it was a smokescreen, that she was the intended victim and it was just a matter of time.'
'You must have formed an opinion of her, Van,' Sutton said. 'Who she was, whether or not she was hiding anything.'
Van Alphen looked at the ceiling again. I formed the belief that she was running away from something.'
'Like what?'
'Some heavy people. A vicious husband or boyfriend. Someone she owed money to. Someone she ripped off. Something along those lines.'
'But she didn't say?'
'No.'
'Running away from trouble in New Zealand, do you think?'
'I've no idea.'
'But you think they found her?'
Van Alphen looked at Sutton and said carefully, 'She thought they'd found her. But she was generally predisposed to think that. She was scared. If anything out of the ordinary happened, she misconstrued it, thought it applied to her alone.'
'Except,' Challis said, 'this time she didn't misconstrue it.'
'I guess so.'
'You're not making this up?'
'There were firemen there with me the night her mailbox got burnt. They'll tell you, she was scared out of her brain, when anyone else would've simply been pissed off.'
